


Nadir

by Neleothesze



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Body-hopping, F/M, Pseudo-SI, Pseudo-Self-Insert, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neleothesze/pseuds/Neleothesze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Budding illusionist Archer Kyne is confused: the universe keeps throwing the Sun Arcobaleno in her path... but any sort of attraction's pointless.</p><p>After all, the sun belongs to the sky and all that rot... Doesn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nadir

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written purely for pleasure. It should be a light read with a happily ever after (of a sort). In any case, it shouldn't be taken too seriously. (crossposted from FF now that it's finished)

  _ **E**_ _ **xcerpts from the diary of one Archer Kyne**_

* * *

_(the first paragraphs are hardly legible, so heavily they've been crossed out)_

_Guilt._ (the repulsive emotion that society sees as a central marker of morality). Would I ever come across a civilization which wouldn't strive to indoctrinate its people in connecting guilt with the ownership of moral principles? Over time, I've come to hate the word, for how foreign and elusive it is—

 ** _Ha!_**  Look at me rambling and being all melodramatic.

I suppose I should stop before this journal devolves into a teenage diary littered with existential angst and dime-store philosophy but in all my lives, I've always somehow fallen embarrassingly low on whatever bizarre scale they'd devised for ranking emotionally healthy individuals. And that truth... it still rankles sometimes.

I know I've loved: I loved my son on Terra, I deeply cared for my lovers on Abeir-Toril and my wife on Earth-616. I've felt happiness and joy, trusted my blood relatives (and the families I eventually found for myself), grieved over each loss and feared over my loved ones' safety. Remorse and guilt though… Over the years, I've put in so much effort in faking these pointless things.

One hundred and eleven years, if you were wondering: thirty one lived on Terra, thirty-eight on Toril, nineteen on Earth-616 and now twenty-three on Terra-R, a slightly more magical Earth than my first. Should this diary be found, some might wonder: 'how could he label this world  _slightly_ magical, what with such things as illusions, ghosts and life flames.' How could I not?

I've bypassed the peaceful afterlife (or Hell, more probably) thrice so far - proof that even death can't make someone less of a coward - only to slip into worlds just teeming with magic. Though I suppose it was just my soul/spirit/essence or what have you... At first I'd clung to the dying body of Palla, an abandoned tiefling baby… leading me to spend the next thirty odd years in Zhentil Keep, on Faerun, learning whatever Enchantment spells Master Dvaa-Xi deemed fit to teach me, dazing and charming (or damning and cursing) my teacher's enemies and rivals with symbols and words of power.

When I lost my own life in an ambush (a very clever one... I should salute the scum for using their much vaunted intellect for once), I was drawn to yet another dying child, a little mutant boy. Instead of using spell components, ritual words and ley lines for magic, this body had the power to blend with the environment to a ridiculous extent. It was almost a given that in a poverty stricken country I'd use this to steal from the rich and - as the Divine of Aleroth had said - give it all to my poor self.

I died fighting beside my wife on a heist gone bad (us thieves had been no match for the collector's hired guns) and woken up in the body of seven-year old Kyne Archer, sole surviving child of Reynold and Bridget Archer, wandering British entrepreneurs.

It sounded ominous, didn't it? Sole surviving child… It took me close to five years to figure that my parents' insistence in learning how to use firearms and our near constant travel was more a matter of necessity than eccentricity.

The first time I saw someone trying to kidnap my mother - and  _how dare they_ , I hadn't had a loving mother in over fifty years, she was  _mine_ \- my instinctive reaction was to run (suppressing  _that_  felt almost painful)... the second, to stab the nearest man with a sauce-covered carving fork (the only weapon on hand). Of their return shots, two grazed my side... one struck me straight in the stomach.

" _Fuck, fuck, fuck!"_  I remember thinking as I dropped like a stone... " _it never gets easier, does it._ " I'd clenched my teeth and struggled to breathe through the pain. Even if it were the last good deed I'd do before jumping to another body... I couldn't let them… I'd been resolved that the bastards wouldn't be taking any parent of mine.

I wanted, I  _yearned_ for my old magic, to be able to shout a word of power, to slither inside their minds, to sew shades and whispers at the edges of their thoughts. Anything!

My gut pulsed with a harsh, pervasive heat and I could feel myself reaching out, slipping around the kidnappers, on their clothes, their hair, their skin... and finally, inside. At that point, I could feel them - like shadowy puppets at the edge of a hazy string dangling loosely from the corners of my imagination. Oh, the possibilities! But I was bleeding, my mother was crying and struggling and there wasn't any time for curiosity.

The orders I gave them were clumsy, harsh - it had been over two decades since I'd dominated anyone's mind and the method was new, unfamiliar… but living beings could only think in so many ways. Where there was mistrust, I made it grow into paranoia... made them doubt each-other, panicked, angry and hateful… and when they shot themselves, I slipped back. Magic wasn't needed anymore, they were beyond any reconciliation. They tore themselves apart and when Bridget broke free and rushed to my side, I finally let myself drift off to the thrilling thought that  _this_  life would be beautiful!

There had been no angry talks of herding mutants into camps on the news... No hateful propaganda launched against magic. Whatever this power was, I thought - as mother clutched me tightly while shouting on the phone for an ambulance -, it wasn't feared (or known) by the general populace. At eleven, I hadn't heard any hint of mystic colleges or arcane leaders and yet in my chest something sung, soft and comforting. It seemed as if a filmy sheen had settled over my heart - no, rather a warm vaporous blanket to keep the world away.

My mother was saying something... but it was so hard to focus. Still, I felt like laughing.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

...But I digress. Even when writing it's easy to get lost in memories. I was speaking of ethics, sins and guilt, wasn't I?

Having first studied the mind arts under the tutelage of a particularly immoral individual who was part of an organization almost universally acknowledged as evil (that the Zhentarim were known as evil even across the planes should really be a point of pride… especially as the only books I've come across which were written about Terra Prime were dinosaur tales.), I'd never much cared about the moral implications of playing with someone's mind. Wise, willful or intelligent individuals were nearly always immune to such magic and those who were too stupid or weak-willed to resist deserved to have their freedom of will revoked.

I held myself to only one rule: that I'd never try to influence the minds of those I cared about. Out of pride perhaps, but I wanted their love and affection - if they felt any - to be real, not something I'd conjured up. It felt like a much worthier achievement, to have them care for me out of their own free will. And as for lust… well, lust was ridiculously easy.

I'd grown up a beautiful enough woman - a lithe redhead with light blue eyes. When I wanted them, I didn't lack for partners… True, I'd yet to find someone who could hold my attention for more than a couple of weeks (even when they were equally handsome - and kind or charming as they tended to be - it felt as if something was missing, as though my magic rejected their own magicless souls) but I held onto the hope that this meant that someday, I'd find someone with magic like my own. Till then, I had Bridget and Reynold for affection and a host of forgettable faces for anything else, I'd thought. I should have remembered not to bind my heart to others' quite so tightly, even if they were my parents.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

At twenty-one, the only two people who'd loved me had passed away. Bridget from cancer, Reynold from a stroke.

In the span of four years, I'd found myself alone. Aimless, I drifted from country to country as my parents had done, a jaded and grieving jack-of-all-trades. That a mafia family sought to use my unusual talents should have come as no surprise.

I was in Nîmes, having just finished a sweep job. With magic to hide me and dominate the guards, it had been a piece of cake to acquire the Bonnay family's heirloom. I'd almost stopped caring whether the weak-willed wretches could recover after I was done playing in their minds and while my psychic assaults had become more precise with age and experience, they'd also become more vicious. Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly angry or frustrated, when my magic almost hummed under my skin, the mental invasions would almost leave physical traces, faint bruises or even burns (if the illusion had been elemental in nature as opposed to the usual emotional triggers). It was an interesting effect that I planned to explore further, when time allowed.

I was just waiting for the client to show up when the when the bar exploded with activity... well, the windows and walls just exploded and a trio of burly men in gray suits rushed through the door. Shit!

"See if she survived and plant the letters on the body." I heard one ordering.

I'd jumped behind an upturned table, guns already in my hands and the magic buzzing eagerly under my skin. I grit my teeth. Of course it was a setup. They would've used their own men otherwise... I was just edging past the table to take aim when three pops sounded, one after another and the gangsters, each forehead shot cleanly in the centre, dropped dead.

My heart beat wildly. Whoever had taken them out must have been a professional. An assassin… Slowly, carefully, I urged the magic to reach out and cover me, to hide me from sight… ' _no point in looking any further… there's nothing behind the table_ ' it whispered.

Only the assassin, it seemed, could sense the whisper. Instead of having it twine around his mind and lead him away, it made him curious. I saw a shadow drop from the rafters and then he was not ten feet from me, tall and lean, a stylish murderer in a classy black suit and orange banded fedora, scanning the area around around me with a narrowed gaze. Sweat gathered on my brow and I resisted the urge to wipe it off. My fingers were steady around the guns' grips but it took all my will to stop my body from trembling.

I was confident in the strength of my illusions so why was it that the man's mere presence raised the hair on my neck, why did his coiled aggression feel like searing pinpricks all across my skin? I hated it! ...and debated trying to shoot him, probable assassin or not, when a second person jumped down, a pink-haired woman this time.

She cast her eyes around the room, dismissively almost, and said "Are we done here, Reborn? Let me treat you to a drink in some other pub before we report."

My eyes widened and I could feel my jaw drop slightly. Some half-forgotten memory niggled at my mind. That gunman in the suit, he was an actual assassin, wasn't he? And the girl... a poison specialist? I scanned the people in front of me in light of this new information.

" _Reborn. Reborn... So I am in that universe…"_ I thought thought to myself, as the hitman finally nodded to a teenaged Bianchi and left. " _...and this likely isn't magic."_ My fingers rubbed a circle across my heart, where the warm blanket still hovered " _...they're flames…"_

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

Having gained some extra insight into how my magic (flames) worked, even if it was just information from a manga I could barely recall (written in a different realm for the understanding of  _those_ people to boot) made working with my psychic power easier than ever before.

It was fun, it was addictive and in under two years I'd developed enough control to hold minor illusions up for hours. Of course, I had no intention of testing my power against this world's powerhouses and top illusionists but normal people - civilians as it were - were pretty toys to play with.

Still… discovering that there were others with my sort of magic who kept a tight reign on their abilities - more powerful individuals even, who didn't flaunt their power… it made me think back on how I'd been using my illusions and reconsider my decision to treat civilians so casually (callously even).

To tell the truth, I don't think I would have changed my approach if seeing Reborn hadn't made me remember how much disdain I'd felt for Rokudo Mukuro's attitude, for Kawahira's high-handedness…

That I'd only ended propagating the idea of the 'evil illusionist' made me feel… uncomfortable. I wondered if perhaps that was what remorse felt like, a niggling itch in the back of one's mind, cousin to shame. If it was, why had I been chasing such feelings?! They were awful!

I immediately set to finding something else to focus on, something which didn't leave a sour taste in my mouth.

I opened a funhouse on the edge of Munich and, for six months a year, I enjoyed the fact that people paid me to practice my illusions on them. In return, I let them experience the wonders of the Forgotten Realms, the thrills of a dystopian Earth-616 and anything else my mind could conjure up… which turned out to be a (satisfying) lot.

And as much as the funhouse was a welcome diversion for the civilian visitors, it was also my refuge when the world's inherent ugliness spilled too close to my daily life.

* * *

After the deals in France, I'd become much more aware of the seedy elements of society - which was a great thing for my security but not so much for my peace of mind, especially as the universe conspired to keep throwing a certain individual in my path.

I thought I caught glimpses of him in Menton and Sanremo. A month later, at a party in Genoa, the hitman lounged on a chair near my own gambling table, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other placed casually near the edge of the suit, within easy reach of one of his weapons, no doubt.

I'd had my fair share of drinks and my judgement must have been seriously impaired because I stopped resisting the impulse to send a tendril of power to brush against him.

" _Just a taste,"_  I told myself. " _he won't even notice."_

He did. He was far too professional to even twitch but his eyes narrowed and I could see him scanning the room. I didn't know whether to be terrified or excited when his gaze reached me ...and stopped. He didn't rise to confront me, nor did he show any aggression aside from that intense look but my heart was in my throat. The burning taste of his hadou and the searing stare worked wonders for dispelling the drunken haze.

I left the party far earlier than I'd first planned, cloaked under the heaviest, most intricate illusion I could raise. What had I been thinking?

* * *

I saw him again not two months later. I was in Bergamo, in a cozy little pub where most patrons were young civilian students out for a night in town. I had been daydreaming, musing about time, health, life and a million other issues which I normally brushed aside with nary a thought. My first hint that something was wrong was when the young bartender kept glancing to a spot next to my right elbow with bedroom eyes and an inviting smile.

The manga makes light of Reborn's disguises but where the baby might have looked ridiculous, the adult… well. In casual clothes, with a trendy hat, glasses and a chain necklace which invited a host of inappropriate thoughts, it took me almost a minute to place the handsome man who'd taken the seat right next to mine. The hitman was gorgeous, yes but much too dangerous for me and, in power levels, completely out of my league. I held a faint hope that his presence here was all coincidence… at least until he decided to address me.

" _Chaos_." he greeted with a lazy wave " _You left so soon last time, we didn't even get to talk._ "

I tried not to clench my jaw in dismay and, rather than answering in my somewhat broken Italian, I switched to English and prayed that my voice sounded as casual as his.

"Had I been interested in talking, I'd have stayed."

" _Ohh… and here I thought that you seemed interested in a bit more than talking._ " The words were spoken in a joking tone but he'd leaned forward and there was there wasn't even the faintest trace of humor in his searching gaze.

Even though it might have been a sign a weakness, I gave into the urge of closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead as I thought.  _"Fuck, now what?"_  How did I get myself into these sort of situations? And more importantly, how would I get myself out of it?

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

I've been in plenty of bad situations over the years... most of them of my own making. I guess it just goes to show that with age doesnt' necessarily come wisdom. Instead, you get an ocean of knowledge to draw from which sounds great in theory. In practice, it means sorting through all the things you've done before, what you should possibly (or shouldn't ever,  _ever_ ) do again. I'll tell you now that this usually takes a really long time and by the time you act, you've probably been labeled either slow, stupid or lazy.

'Go with your instincts', you might say. And would that be the instinct to  _run_ , to cast a Power Word: Blind and  _run_ , or to go invisible and  _run_? The problem with having lived such diverse existences is that previous solutions rarely apply.

Though I guess there's a certain pattern there and you might ask, what's with all the 'running'? Cowardice/self-preservation is what it is, the main reason why I try not to tangle with people stronger than me. (Running from the strong, tormenting weaklings, keh... I should probably stop talking about all of that before I make myself look bad.)

What's more, using illusions - from this range - and again, making a run for it, felt like I'd be waving a flag with the words 'Congratulations. Suspicious individual identified. Aim straight for 100 points. Good luck!'

In this case, I was trying to think if there was anything I could do to put Reborn off (...obviously without inspiring any murderous thoughts). What did I know (or thought I knew) about the guy: what sort of people annoyed him the most but somehow managed to survive? I hit upon an idea that was so absurd, so embarrassing… it was bound to work!

I steeled myself, opened my eyes and invaded his personal space (leaning forward as much as I thought wouldn't earn me a bullet) making sure that any shred of attraction I felt could be seen in the stare.

"You're right, Mister Reborn!" I admitted in a loud, serious voice "As expected of the world's greatest hitman, haha! I guess it was too much of assume you wouldn't catch on. Our meetings weren't a coincidence."

"Oh?" he prompted when I tried to continue without gritting my teeth. His glass of whiskey - served neat and barely touched - looked mighty inviting as a shot.

"Some of them I engineered myself but some of them were obviously…" I took a deep breath " _fate_! The attraction I feel is... undeniable." (it had the benefit of being true, which was even more mortifying) For you to come chasing after me now, fate must really be on my side. I shouldn't play hard to get! So… what are you planning?"

Oh, by Bane's bloody gauntlet… I'd done it - put the most humiliating spin on the situation as possible. And Reborn… he was looking at me with a blend of skepticism, amusement and disdain (I was aiming for disgust and a quick ' _Get out of my sight_ ' but hey, I'd take what I'd get) as if he couldn't quite decide if anyone would be stupid or bold enough to lie about their goals and confess to the World's Greatest Hitman in a pub. At length, he turned to face the bar and snorted.

 _"Sorry. I'm not looking for a relationship."_  he drawled. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt.

"Oh... I... suppose you'll ask me not to follow you again."

 _"A reasonable assumption."_  he praised (voice faintly mocking) and rose.  _"See that you don't."_

This set the tone for all our subsequent meetings.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

I'd left Italy soon after that and it was seven months before I saw him again, in Antwerp.

One of the repeat visitors to my Munich funhouse had hinted at a job for me, working for an acquaintance of his in Belgium, some business mogul who'd apparently been looking to hire the very best magician for his daughter's extravagant parties - a set of six three-day events, one every week for a month and a half. I wasn't the best (not by far) but I doubt many illusionists would use their power to entertain snotty, half-drunk wannabe socialites and their pompous progenitors. I needed the money... (Well, no, I didn't really need it, but I wanted it anyway.)

I assume daddy-mogul must've had some shadier connections than it's healthy because about an hour into my performance him and two others sagged at their tables, face down into their hors d'oeuvres, dead.

The one responsible for the shocking social faux pas called from somewhere above  _"Chaos."_

Figures.

* * *

He found me again after the authorities were finally -  _finally_! -done taking our statements, while I was nursing a headache (and my third Martini) at the hotel bar.

Maybe he'd rented a room here (I had no idea and I doubted he'd answer if asked) but I wasn't in the mood to fawn over anyone. When he took a seat some three chairs over, I tried to maintain the fiction of slightly stalkerish fan by asking "Oh, Mister Reborn! Does this mean you've reconsidered?" but it sounded listless and half-hearted even to my own ears.

He snorted lightly, shook his head and went back to his drink. He didn't question me and I didn't bother him.

It was pretty pleasant... as far as awkward silences go.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

By mid-May I was back in Munich, tending to my funhouse. On the outside, the four-storey building was covered in spray can paintings of fantasy dwellings and alien worlds, bedecked with rainbow coloured lights and wrought iron statues of mythical beasts: a crumbling white castle towered over its village, small thatch roof houses surrounding it like the brightly coloured mushrooms at the base of a gnarly tree; spiraling stairs climbed up cloud-covered mountain tops, golden temples sat amidst stormy seas and space ships fought over floating cities, all set to the backdrop of an orange, red and lurid pink sky.

To the right of the building, a motley group of heroes battled a tarrasque while metal beholders petrified tiny metal gnomes, a monument (and eternal middle finger) to the three fellow apprentices who'd made a sport of  _stepping-on-the-tiefling's-tail-during-a-lecture-to-see-how-loud-she-can-yelp_ ; to the left, droids fell apart under the assault of giant, flame-throwing mechs while above the entrance a shadowy dragon grappled with a gryphon over a golden hoard of sparking pyrite nuggets.

The children loved it. (Judging by the funhouse visitor demographics, the adults did too.)

On the inside, the visitors got to experience whatever illusion I felt like conjuring that day, with the snares, traps and tricks each scenario implied, though they were all just labyrinths, treasure hunts and obstacle courses in some form or other.

That particular day I'd chosen to recreate the wilds of the Dragonspire Mountains for the group of six or so bored-looking suits going in.

" _Their boss must have brought them on some team-building exercise._ " I'd thought, and wondered why they hadn't called to book the place in advance. Still, since they were the first visitors of the day I decided to spice things up a little, bring a little excitement in what I assumed were boring lives spent working some stressful nine-to-five job which probably paid less than it should.

Under the forest's heavy canopy, the narrow paths became a little more treacherous, with plenty of fallen branches to trip over, polished rocks to slip on and deep, clinging mud to cover one's footsteps and make backtracking through the crisscrossing trails close to impossible.

They managed it though, and where others might have preferred much tamer entertainment, these men's eyes seemed to light up with every conquered obstacle until, at the end, they were joking and laughing, throwing playful jeers at whichever teammate had fallen behind and loudly praising their own - and their boss' - excellent skills.

Three hours later the group had arrived at the exit and I heard one of them saying that they planned on speaking with the manager. That was my queue to turn on the ' _Sorry for the inconvenience, temporarily closed for cleaning.'_  sign and make my way to my tiny, rarely-used office on the bottom floor (which usually served as a private bar, for those days when I worked on extending the time I could hold my illusions, ending up mentally exhausted and craving a soft couch, near-silent ambient music and a glass or five of dark, bitter lager).

* * *

It turned out that my assumptions had been pretty far off the mark.

The men weren't office workers but bodyguards and their young boss wasn't some up and coming middle manager but rather the second son of the Bovino famiglia head, who was touring Europe for the last time before he was set to take over a branch of the family business. (Not that he actually explained what the family business implied aside from a vague mention of technological developments for this-or-that industry, which might have been true or just a front for the Bovinos's research in weapons and other destructive devices.)

Now, nineteen year old Niccolo B. Bovino - ' _Please call me Nico, bella.'_ \- wasn't the archetypal tall, dark and handsome. He was maybe one inch taller than me, pretty light-skinned for his Mediterranean heritage and his features were too soft for 'handsome' (with large, wide-set grey eyes, a narrow jaw and full, rosy lips he shot right past the line and into 'beautiful'). But he  _was_ easy-going, funny and surprisingly persistent in trying to win a date with the ' _gorgeous lady manager' and 'the shrewd businesswoman in charge of such a fabulous place_ ' (... there was a even certain charm to his constant flirting). I found myself agreeing to a date… and then another… and soon our after-hours meetings could even be called a relationship.

He was silly at times, stubborn and reckless and so much younger than me (even as Kyne I was twenty-three to his nineteen) but then… I'd be hard-pressed to find  _any_ partner older than me in this world, not when there were only ten species capable of self-awareness and the only human-shaped ones were well… the humans.

In the end, Nico cut his tour short to stay in Munich and try and wangle more dates. It took him what - five months maybe? - to get me to close the funhouse for winter and go back to Val di Chiana with him.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

I suppose Nico might have suspected that I was an illusionist but I didn't straight out admit it until we'd been living together in Italy for about three months, when he barged into the hotel bathroom only to find me peeling off a blood-soaked sweater.

My weak "If you wait ten minutes for me to wash this off… I can explain?" came out as more of a question than an order but it did buy me some time to decide what I should tell him and what I should probably keep to myself.

In the end, I stuck to the bare minimum.

"A couple of thugs were up to no good so I helped the poor man they were tormenting fight them off." I said with a shrug. "After they… ran away, the man refused to let me accompany him to the hospital. I do hope he made it there alright."

Nico grumbled a bit about jumping into dangerous situations without backup - and for a random stranger too... and even though I hadn't been hurt I let him fuss over me for the rest of the evening.

It felt nice.

* * *

The more detailed version was that I'd been wandering around Florence looking for a present for Albertina's birthday (Nico's twelve year old cousin and a real sweetheart) when I heard some suspicious noises coming from a nearby back alley.

In this instance curiosity didn't kill the cat but it did buy her a front row seat to an intense fight between a very injured Reborn (wielding only a knife instead of any firearm) and a vicious-looking pair of assassins.

I didn't wait to see who had the upper hand. By the time I'd taken two steps forward, I'd already smothered the area in my magic, urging them to feel tired, helpless and hopeless. At first it didn't seem to have any effect -  _Oh, how I absolutely hated strong-willed people!_  - but as I kept going they slowly, ever so slowly, began to falter. Reborn wasn't known as the world's greatest hitman for nothing: even with just a five-inch blade he took advantage of every new opening, slicing and stabbing, catching them with a kick or a punch till they ended up as twin twitching piles on the alley's filthy flagstones.

After he ensured that they wouldn't cause any more problems (ever), I helped him relocate to a cleaner part of the alley. He grunted in protest but didn't actually shrug me off. Neither did he push me away when I helped him take off the coat and shirt, helped bind the worse wounds with some strips of cloth.

" _Is this your way of asking for a date?_ " he quipped when I finished tying off the last knot.

" _Hardly. I'm taken now._ " I remember saying, somewhat smugly.

" _Hn._ "

He didn't add anything, and I didn't linger long but still, the hitman seemed somewhat friendlier that time.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

As the months passed we spent less and less time at home (between Nico's jobs and my wanderlust we spent maybe... a week there each month). It wasn't that I was bored exactly; the Bovino's country house was a sprawling mansion some thirty miles south of Arezzo with its own state of the art game room, home theatre, pool and tennis court, conservatory and an orchard that could easily double as a botanical garden. If that wasn't enough, the private library had a small collection of books on flames which were very enlightening if dry (as they focused more on genetic transmission and standardized tests that linking personality types to inner flames than guides to awakening, strengthening or using one's flames… I bet all the really exciting texts were squirreled away in some researcher's desk for easy review before/after their experiments… the lucky bastards).

But still, I hadn't moved to Italy to be Nico's trophy girlfriend, to sit at home bettering and beautifying myself till it was time to be taken out and displayed to some business associate who would be more impressed with a peek at the Bovino research department's monthly reports than all my pretty looks or any of my knowledge. Not to mention that it was much more fun to travel with Nico to whichever city the Bovino family had business in. During the day I'd either play the part of gawking tourist or cause a bit of mischief while waiting for him to return with (carefully edited) stories of how his day had been.

I didn't much mind that he tried to shield me from some of the ugliness of the mafia world... In spite of killing the men who'd tried to kidnap Bridget, I didn't see myself as a murderer. (I'd shot at people, yes... blinded, deafened, frenzied or confused guards and put the odd police officer to sleep but that just made me a particularly violent thief.) Even before Nîmes I'd only skirted the edges of the European underworld, making deals with mafioti only when the usual civilian sleazebags (which were a dime a dozen anywhere) had absolutely no work for me.

Nico had been born into that world and, from what I'd gathered, his grand tour of Europe had been his big chance to explore the world as a simple civilian - and his six foot two, bulky, straight-faced simple civilian bodyguards. Still, that he'd cut it short for me... it meant something. If he now wanted to pretend that we were just a young tourist couple when the Bovino sent him north to Florence (in Beccio territory) or south to Naples (to speak to the Lo Russo or Vollaro families - ah, forgive me, waste management companies), I'd indulge him.

In a way, it almost reminded me of travelling with Bridget and Reynold: exploring the city, browsing for souvenirs and choosing the perfect photo spots, evenings spent searching for that perfect restaurant, gorging ourselves on good food and then finally toddling back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps it was this feeling of nostalgia that kept our relationship going for so long...

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

I'd climbed to the roof of church on a whim.

Nico had been particularly annoying that day, I'd been particularly bitchy and the combination had resulted in a spat of epic proportions and my leaving the hotel rather than say something I knew I'd regret. I don't really know what drew me to that small brick church… A sharp warmth had been pulsing in my gut - no doubt that unassuaged anger, still looking for an outlet I couldn't provide - when the building had come into view.

That church was something I'd normally have overlooked. But maybe it was the irony of stumbling on such a sad, sorry sight; an old church tucked between a couple of graffitied buildings, with shriveled climbing ivy nestling in the cracks and barred windows (which seemed particularly depressing on a place of worship - weren't they meant to look open and welcoming? A joke really, since in my experience, gods were no more benevolent than the average creature and even less inclined towards selfless acts of kindness…) but still, something had made me look and I found myself casting a slight illusion and walking inside.

The stairs to the bell tower were narrow, old and worn smooth with age. Even though I wasn't normally a clumsy person I still managed to trip twice on the way up and bump my elbow on the wall. Confident in the fact that the illusion covered my muffled curses and hid me from view, I didn't pay much attention to my surroundings. So I was pretty surprised that just as I'd settled down to watch the stars, clouds, planes and whatever fuck else decided to fly across the sky, a voice spoke up from the back of the roof, somewhere behind a broken stone ornament that may have, long ago, depicted some saint.

" _You'd better not have alerted the target with your presence, woman, or I'll shoot you."_  it threatened and it may have said something about my state of mind that while I didn't reply out loud, I did send an illusionary 'Screw you' to hover around the area I thought the voice had come from. I got back a soundless warning shot which managed to gouge a two inch groove into the old tile without shattering it. " _Fucking flames"_  I thought, stewing in my anger. " _Fucking hitmen you can't mess with."_

I didn't dare test my luck against Reborn's patience but neither did I feel like leaving. Between the earlier fight and Reborn's obnoxious greeting, I felt like my emotional maturity had devolved to that of a five year old stomping her foot and proclaiming that the church roof didn't freaking have his name on it. Nestling deeper under my illusion, I stayed.

* * *

My eyes snapped open when I felt someone settling down beside me. When had I closed them? A quick look at the sky showed me that it was almost dawn. How could I have fallen asleep when I'd been so unbelievably pissed off?

" _Why are you following me again?"_  Reborn asked while I was still trying to wake up.

"I was walking around and I ended up here. So karma, coincidence, bad luck?" I offered, then tried to cover an unladylike snort "Either that, or my hadou wants to do the horizontal hula with your hadou… If the latter's the case... sorry." I added, looking away and shrugging.

I could feel him staring. Then, almost delicately, I felt something brushing against my back, soft with a dark, dangerous undercurrent, like a rough metal sponge covered in silk. My eyes snapped back to his. " _The hell was that?"_  I wanted to ask but his lightly mocking smile told me I wouldn't like the answer.

I sneered weakly and tried to pretend it hadn't bothered me.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

The thing between Nico and I… it lasted two years. It wasn't that our relationship fizzled out so much that sex took a back seat to friendship; Nico wanted me as more of an honest confidante than a lover…  _ **No**_ , it fizzled out. (And even if it's true that it takes two people to make a relationship work, I grant that it was mostly my fault.)

That seemingly pointless meeting atop the little chapel in Naples had renewed my interest in illusions. I'd always passively acknowledged the Arcobaleno's strength but my illusions were pretty damn good and still the hitman had pinpointed my location. (Well, maybe he wouldn't have managed a headshot, not while I'd been cloaked - and not least because I'd curled up like a hedgehog near a fox - but still.) I furiously resumed my research.

My work at the funhouse was difficult - for how much detail I had to work into each scene and how much power was necessary to hold the illusion over a dozen people often for hours at a time - but also easy in the sense that the visitors never actively fought against what they were shown: they expected something strange, shocking or just extraordinary, so the vast majority just went along with whatever fantasy world I brought to life.

Oh, there was always the odd skeptic who tried to poke the make-believe world's decor but even they could be deterred from probing too much by exposing fake bits of metal or plastic, letting them think they'd found pieces of the hidden mechanisms which made the funhouse come alive; (they felt a momentary flare of self-satisfaction and I got to work without the added headache of circumventing a hostile mind.)

No, the problem wasn't in the scope of the illusion or even its intricacy, but rather how our brains were wired to perceive the world - or the person's place in the world - and when or why they chose to reject what I wanted them to see.

To me, most common illusions were like digging into your art supplies for the smallest brush and adding tiny details here and there to a wall-wide painting that was long done. Oh, someone who knew what to look for would probably see the places where the fresh paint glistened but usually, who really noticed that the third cavalryman from the left was wearing a frown where before he'd only been staring, straight-faced, at the approaching enemy army.

And that's what I normally did… made a sleepy person think themselves dead-tired, made an anxious one, terrified or a hateful one, furious. But when I had no idea of who the targets were I sometimes felt as if I'd been left with a blank canvas and too little paint. So instead of building a new reality from the ground up, I hid myself by simply blending in.

For speed (and  _some_  measure of efficiency) the human brain trains itself into making assumptions. Do something once, twice, ten times and the brain will eventually relegate the motions to the subconscious to free some active thinking space for something else, something  _interesting_. And the old thing becomes just… habit.

So whenever I'd planned a break-in I tried to take into account what the guards expected to see. As much as they tried to stay alert, over time, their routine came with certain assumptions: with the owners either gone or sleeping, the rooms would be empty, the corridors and stairs too; I just built up on those simple assumptions: they expected an empty hallway, so I faded into the background. They expected emptiness to be silent, so my footsteps went unheard.

And while this had been proven to work pretty damn well for civilians, something about my technique must have been incomplete because it had made Reborn suspicious even during that first meeting in Nîmes. Was it just familiarity with the feel of Mist flames? Something else? Whatever it was, it had strengthened my determination in mastering my illusions' defensive aspect.

Spending time with Nico took a distant second place.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

You'd have expected that for a centenarian the eight months I spent tweaking and refining my illusions would've passed in the blink of an eye. But I'd never taken over the body of any incredibly long lived species and my own soul shied away from dull, repetitive work. I counted those eight months as a season of self-torture.

I got to test my abilities sooner than I'd expected.

Because I wasn't formally part of the Bovino family (or because I wasn't a social butterfly and in any gathering Nico's age I'd probably just cramp his style) I'd met just a small number of his friends over the years. Marco Lo Russo hadn't been one of them and thank Bane for that.

Apparently, the young Lo Russo had just discovered his Sky flames and what better way to one-up his former mafia school rival than to forcefully draw him in as one of his minions, pardon me,  _Guardians_.

I had complete confidence that Nico wouldn't fall for the trick and that his own Lightning flames would be too strong for the budding Sky-flame user... but that didn't mean that  _I_  had to suffer the feeling.

Seeing Lo Russo's smug, puggish face while something sharp and cold tried to burrow under the skin like frozen crochet needles, digging in and pulling... as if this little punk could somehow earn… what? admiration?  _loyalty?_  with such a pathetic show of force...  _ridiculous_.

I remember... I hadn't even stopped to think before throwing my magic his way, digging my own claws in, strangely excited to see what would take hold. (One of the things I'd worked on was letting my magic run a bit more freely, letting it twine around what it would, less influenced by my own expectations and desires, until building an illusion had become less like creating a masterpiece and more like sprinkling a veil of water over a garden of unknown flaws and fears. Everyone had a weakness so  _something_  would bud... I didn't necessarily know what… I just had to be there to carefully help it grow.)

Ah, I could feel my lips stretching into a smile as I saw young Marco's confident smirk start to waver as his eyes darted around the room; his shoulders hunched forward and he started to fidget even as he tried to recapture Nico's attention. But the mafia could smell weakness and already several people around the room were pointing and chuckling. I found myself laughing too, but for another reason entirely… Who needed darkness, blood or maggots under the skin when we were all set to poison ourselves at the earliest opportunity.

Marco's neck went beet red. When his voice shook, it was over.

...And I didn't even get to learn what had set him off. Tch… Something else to work on.

* * *

Needless to say, Nico's father hadn't been pleased with the Lo Russo heir's attempt. What  _had_ pleased him was my own prompt intervention (even if it hadn't been, strictly speaking, on his son's behalf). My posession of Mist flames had been something of an open secret around the mansion so I'd known it was only a matter of time till someone would give me  _some_ task... I just hadn't expected it to be Nico's father, and the job: becoming Nico's on-and-off bodyguard.

Well, we were more friends than lovers now anyway, weren't we... (Though I suppose that order was the final nail in the coffin.)

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

There are certain professions/vocations that are likely to earn someone the Most Charismatic Person of the Year Award, like being an actor, religious reader or a political pundit. Others, like being an undertaker, IRS agent or hitman... not so much.

Of course, Reborn would probably tell you that he'd won the underground version twenty years in a row, probably ' _a trivial feat for the World's Greatest Hitman_ '. It might even be true...

But speaking of absurdly charismatic people... I don't know exactly  _why_  Reborn was seeking me out (the so called ' _coincidental meetings_ ' were really adding up) but I couldn't make myself mind because he'd cut back on the arrogant attitude somewhat... and well, even if he hadn't, he was still a witty, well-read, ridiculously handsome man.

In small enough doses, it was the perfect present for enduring long weeks of boring guard duty where my only entertainment came from building illusions around the patrol area. It was amusing that Nico's other bodyguards had taken to fighting over who got to partner me for the 6-hour shifts.

I think some weeks, the notion of seeing the hitman for an (oh-so-coincidental) lunch meeting was the only thing still holding me in Italy.

* * *

I sipped my tea as I listened to Reborn talk and let my eyes rove over his body; the way he was lounging in his seat, legs splayed wide, arms slung casually over the sides of the chair... there was a fine line between confidence and Reborn's ' _oggle me all you want, still can't touch this_ '-cockiness but the hitman's aura tended to discourage any reprimands... And as far as I was concerned, if he wanted to be eye-candy, he was old enough for me not to feel uncomfortable about it.

I didn't really understand what had caused his gradual insertion into my life, because it seemed far likelier that my repeated stumbling into  _his_  should've earned me some punishment (with a hitman... probably the terminal kind) instead of a reward. But whenever I tried asking, in a roundabout manner, he just gave me an oddly amused look and bullshit reasons that got more outlandish the longer I insisted.

Was it a Mafia thing, keeping an eye on me in case I proved dangerous? Was it a friend thing? (At this point we could be considered friends, I supposed. Was I a bad friend for  _not_  asking him out to lunch?) Or was it just a Reborn thing?

_"Stop thinking so hard about it. If you haven't figured it out by now, it's hopeless. You're hopeless."_

I snorted. Getting lost in thought around Reborn was never healthy for one's ego. I drained my cup just as he called for the check. I guess we both had work to do.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

This week's work? High-stakes guard duty... as opposed to the usual I'm-just-here-because-your-father-gives-outrageously-high-wages-and-no-that-doesn't-mean-I'll-model-sexy-swimwear-for-you-Nico guard duty. (Unfortunately, the latter was an actual thing. Fortunately, the earnings went towards the future expansion of my Munich fun-house... and I had lots of ideas.) But speaking of the current high-stakes guard duty...

The best and brightest (deadliest) of the mafia world had all gathered under the same roof, dressed to the nines and looking properly, almost scarily pious for the Ognissanti service.

The officiating priest, I remember thinking, was either part of the Mafia or had indulged in some serious anti-anxiety pills before the service... No one should have looked that calm addressing a congregation of a thousand or so hardened killers on the topic of the holy men who had devoted or sacrificed their lives in serving the Lord. (And I didn't even want to think of that unhealthy parallels the various Guardians might draw.)

After the priest had finished blessing the whole assembly and left, still looking (suspiciously) serene, we all squeezed into the far-too-expensive rides for a quick trip to the far-too-extravagant venue the Vongola family had rented for the festivities.

It gave me goosebumps to see hired guns stomping their boots over the inlaid marble floors ( _and were those real mother-of-pearl accents?!_ ) and bodyguards lurking behind thick columns just dripping with gold-leaf tesserae. Even the prowling Guardians (who should've owned at least some measure of grace) bruised and unsettled the artfully drooping nepenthes as they darted from one spot to another.

 _ **I**_  was hiding part way behind one overdone flower arrangement, keeping an eye on Nico as he effortlessly charmed a group of ladies, when I felt someone pressing behind me.

_"Letting your partner flaunt his infidelities so openly shows weakness."_

Ah… Reborn, ever so ready with a compliment. I didn't know whether to laugh or feel insulted. Was he trying to teach me how to keep a lover now?

"We're just friends... without benefits..." I stopped to think and then cheerfully amended "at least for the moment."

_"Do you pay such close attention to all your friends?"_

"Oh, if they were all as handsome, I just might." I said with a dismissive shrug. His eyes narrowed at my dodging and since it didn't look like he'd be dropping the issue, I finally added "But I suppose there's only a fine line between wingman and auxiliary bodyguard, isn't there."

He didn't miss a beat.

_"A good bodyguard should stick closer to her Boss."_

I huffed. "A good wingman knows when not to cockblock."

 _"Don't be vulgar."_  he ordered with a sniff.

"When there's a call for it, there's a call for it..." I countered, my eyes still scanning the room for anything overly suspicious.

At a party such as this one it was next to impossible to keep an eye on everything dangerous; case in point, Di Stefano (an up-and-coming bounty hunter) and Costantini (an information broker) hanging from Nico's arms, Donata, Donatella, Dona-something Strangi (who weren't even tentative allies to the Bovino) - a blonde bombshell standing far too close as she spoke ...and the World's Greatest Hitman currently breathing down my neck, scolding and snipping and generally messing with my focus by just standing nearby.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that a good bodyguard learns to keep a civil tongue." I teased.

Tch! I couldn't even listen to his reply: Costantini had gotten a shifty look in her eye as she started fiddling with her beaded bag. Now either she was planning something unpleasant or Nico had started to bore her. (He was as charming as they come but heavens forbid you start debating any film or series' artistic value with him.) Smiling grimly, I sent a tiny tendril of magic to wrap around Costantini's mind… just a pinch... just enough to give her a bit more confidence (or recklessness, as the case may be).

It wasn't healthy to keep things bottled up, was it.

I felt the magic pulse once as it settled and almost instantly, the blue-haired information broker pushed Nico away with a shrill curse and stomped off.

Ah well, seems she wasn't all that into him anyway.

" _Is this another thing a wingman does, chase suitors away?"_  Reborn mockingly asked.

"Heh… there are plenty of ladies for Nico without picking one after his fortune or his position in the Family." I answered, tilting my chin towards the Strangi blonde who'd already taken Costantini's spot and was staring at Nico with an almost revoltingly smitten gaze. "Besides, I just helped that one make her feelings known. If I… encouraged Donata-"

"Donella."

"...the blonde, they're likely to get kicked out for public indecency."

The hitman's lips quirked in a tiny smile. " _So this one meets with your approval?"_

"I suppose she does… so far."

I could almost feel it when he turned pinned me with a strange, questioning stare.

" _And that"_  he said, tilting his head towards the couple. " _doesn't bother you at all? What with you bragging, hmm, how was it..."_  he drawled " _that 'you were taken'?"_

 _'When had I...'_  I tried to remember, but it wasn't really important... instead, I wondered why he kept asking. It was starting to get annoying. "Oh, but don't you remember, Reborn? My passionate confession three years ago…" I replied in a tone as sickeningly sweet as I could manage "See, my heart couldn't have been crushed by Nico when a corner's always been reserved… just for you. And you haven't even noticed I'm single… that I've been waiting for you to make a move... So disheartening." I finished, sighing deeply.

He didn't laugh (but then he wasn't really the laughing sort)... and he didn't sneer or say anything mocking (which was more to his style).

He blinked incredulously.  _"You joke about that when you haven't even-"_  He stopped himself abruptly and just stared. Between scanning the room and keeping an eye on Nico's ladies, I couldn't really hold his gaze but I did notice how the look turned strangely determined. Before I could ask him about it, he left without so much as a goodbye. I saw him talking to some of my colleagues but I was too busy shadowing Nico to focus on Reborn's puzzling behavior.

I'd all but forgotten about it when he appeared at my side some half an hour later and curtly informed me that everything had been taken care of and I was free to leave with him.

"Leave?" I asked and he looked very annoyed at the question.

" _Even you can't possibly misunderstand now. We're leaving. Now."_

"Wait…" I insisted as I tried to keep up with his long strides "And where are we going?"

" _My place."_

Oh.

 _Oh._  I suppose it was too late to say I was just teasing… ...I took in his blank expression. He looked bored but… felt impatient. Did I really mind? He  _was_ ridiculously handsome… A one-night stand… What could it hurt?

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

I couldn't tell you much about the ride, other than the fact that it had made me hyper aware of the man beside me.

We didn't talk as he drove but the silence was comfortable. As we sped towards his home, my mind was running though all our previous interactions, putting them in a new light.

Every once in a while I'd steal a glance at Reborn trying to... to… See if I wanted this? I wasn't really worried about that; I already found him attractive. Trying to see if he was serious about this? What with him arranging things with the Family and us leaving in the middle of the event, there could be little doubt… But this whole thing had come out of left field.

Perhaps I was simply trying to regain my footing and, in his own way, Reborn was giving me time to do just that.

* * *

He pushed the door closed as soon as I stepped foot in the apartment.

With a swift twist of the wrist, four bolts slid closed. I took a step back but even so, he'd leaned so far to reach the locks that he was still towering over me, his suit jacket brushing against my own, his warm breath fanning my cheeks.

He didn't quite crowd, more like loomed passively, and I had to crane my neck to look at him. The corners of his lips pulled upwards - just slightly, reigned in before it could bloom into a smile. It was enough to put me at ease though; despite his dominant posture, he had no intention of going at a faster pace than I was comfortable with.

My relief must have been obvious. He gave a low, throaty laugh… silenced abruptly when I unfastened the suit's middle button.

"...let me…?" I asked in a whisper. His jacket opened and, when he hummed his assent, I set to work on the waistcoat, stroking his shirt-clad chest as I went.

He was all straight lines, hard muscles and tightly-coiled power purring under the skin, tempting in a way I hadn't felt before… making me want to let my flames run free across his body, mapping it out for my pleasure. I took a deep, shuddering breath to steady myself and tried to ignore the strange sense of smug satisfaction I could feel from Reborn.

I hummed under my breath, some song whose words I'd long forgotten, and soon the off-white shirt had joined its partners on the back of a chair.

Oh… heavens. I could only be thankful that Reborn's own vanity made him tolerate my shameless staring. Ah, but he looked stunning, standing there shirtless... a patient, seductive shadow highlighted against the faint moonlight peeking between the curtains. I felt like wrapping myself around him, grinding against his body to make sure he was real.

Instead, I took my time splaying and trailing my hands across his torso. Was he really mine for the night? This dangerous, gorgeous man...

" _Thank you."_ he purred, eyes shining with amusement… knowingly - I might as well have said it aloud.

"You know, if you‒" His lips covered mine, a simple brush of skin on skin that sent a rush of heat to my core. I bit back a groan.

" _I know."_ he whispered against my jaw, before his mouth continued its downward path. I didn't even try to hold in the moans as he sucked and nipped at my throat.

"If‒"

" _I know, Kyne."_

"Tch. If yo-you keep insisting you're a m-mind-reader..." My voice hitched on every other word; I may've had trouble stringing words together but if that was the price I had to pay for those searing kisses… I hooked my fingers in his belt loops to draw him closer "When you p-plan on interrogating so-someone, they'll just assume you already‒"

" _Oh, they wouldn't dare..."_  he rumbled between kisses and while a hand tugged at my shirt his other wrapped around my wrist.

I idly noted that he was leading me towards the bedroom and, as I tried to unbuckle his belt, I darted a peek around him. It was all pitch black. Hmm… hopefully he'd have a large bed, came a stray thought and I bit my lip to keep from snickering. Why was it that having a new partner always made me feel so…  _young_ , so‒

" _You're thinking too much."_  Reborn grumbled, nipping at my collarbone in punishment as he worked on my own shirt with a dexterity born of long practice. " _I might have to take some drastic measures to keep my pride from being hurt..."_  he mock threatened.

"Oh?" I asked, tugging with the ends of his belt to bring our hips flush together. His eyes slid to half-mast and I shuddered as I felt his hard heat pressing against me. He looked to where the black leather wrapped around my wrists and his lips stretched in a dangerous smile.

" _Hmmm…_   _but perhaps you'd much rather see how effective those interrogation techniques are?"_

"...Later in the night?" I laughed, crossed the threshold and closed the bedroom door.

* * *

  **Epilogue**

_**excerpts from Archer's diary** _

* * *

I woke up to the sun warming my cheek and strong fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. The curtains danced in the breeze gusting from the open window, painting odd, flickering shadows across our bodies.

When I turned to look at Reborn, he was smiling slightly. His unruly hair, further tousled from sleep, had settled around his head like a dark halo. Even the deep shadows in his eyes seemed to have softened somewhat and it made his steady stare look even more inviting.

I could feel myself smiling back, melting back into the soft sheets from his caresses. Wherever he trailed his fingers and our skin met, the flames seemed to be purring, lingering for an instant longer than the touch, almost like gentle kisses from his energy to mine. Lounging like that, doing as he liked, he looked like a great, dangerous feline condescending to be well-behaved purely because it pleased him to do so.

Heh, Reborn certainly wore happiness well - and I suppose I was glad that I got to see this side of him, even if only for a short while. Speaking of which…

A quick glance at my watch told me I was running late.

"Oh, no… Damn it." I quickly tossed the covers off and started rushing about the room, searching for my clothes. They were wrinkled, my hair felt like a bird's nest and there wasn't even time for a shower. Damn. Illusions would have to do.

I fished the phone out of my suit pocket and started dialing the number for a cab when I felt a hand stopping me. I looked back at Reborn, who was calmly buttoning his shirt. His face was closed off and I felt a slight pang. I was going to miss seeing him so open as he'd been before.

" _Kyne. Stop panicking. I'll drive you."_  he said as he straightened his tie. I couldn't tell what he was thinking but I supposed Reborn wasn't the type to beat around the bush. If there was anything wrong I was sure he'd tell me.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

Reborn didn't call me back to his place again but he did drop by mine from time to time.

In the beginning, when I heard someone fiddling with my lock, I'd jump from my computer, guns blazing only to see Reborn leaning calmly against the doorway, wearing an indulgent smile and seemingly waiting for my permission to enter the apartment, as if he hadn't just picked the lock and invited himself inside. After the third time that happened, I finally gave in to the inevitable and handed him a set of spare keys.

However, I couldn't complain about his unplanned (and frequently unannounced) visits: the sex was great - fantastic really - and the feel of Reborn's energy was almost addictive. Sometimes, I just wanted to spend hours basking in that pervading warmth, twining my body around his hot skin and overpowering flames, like a wisp of smoke around a brightly burning candle. ...Those were hours we didn't often have.

Reborn usually did spend the night when he dropped by but often, even when he did, one of us would be called for an emergency and there wouldn't be any late morning lazing in bed, just cold, bitter cups of coffee in some seedy meeting place with hasty debriefs for missions gone bad.

* * *

_**KHR** _

* * *

We'd been in this relationship for over a year now and, over time, I learnt a couple of new things about Reborn. One of the most important nuggets of knowledge was that, as straightforward as Reborn usually was, he really,  _really_  prefered it when people figured certain things out for themselves.

He could get quite stubborn about it and quietly spiteful too, especially if he felt that someone or something was making him miss out on something he wanted.

...And lately, I felt like I was the target of this passive-aggressive sulking. It didn't really make any sense. We were seeing each other almost daily. Reborn didn't find excuses to spend more time apart, neither did he try pushing me away. To the best of my knowledge I hadn't missed any important anniversaries and his birthday wasn't for another four months. I was really at a loss.

So that night after dinner, as I started doing the dishes, I confronted Reborn (resigned to being made to feel like a fool for missing something that must've been obvious). He answered my questions with a couple of his own.

" _Why haven't you ever asked to come to my place?"_  he asked, almost offhandedly " _Why haven't you ever asked me to move in?"_

I blinked, confused at the abrupt subject change. "What's that to do with anything?"

" _Just answer the question."_

"I would've thought it evident. Since you didn't invite me over again, I naturally assumed you didn't want anyone invading your sanctuary, your manly man cave, your hitman hidey-hole or whatever." I said, trying to make light of the whole situation. I really couldn't understand it. This was what he'd been upset about? How vexing! "I've been really worried about what might've been going on, Reborn. Tch..."

I turned back to the sink and watched as the water rose over the colored glass. "If, at times, I simply can't make the same leaps in thought as you do… I'd ask you to just take matters into your own hands. Our lives are stressful enough without adding on extra worries about what the other might be thinking, don't you agree?"

" _So I should just go ahead with whatever I want, is that what you're saying?"_

"Well… yes. I trust you to not really go overboard so… yes. Now, 'bout what you mentioned before... I take it you'd like me to come over sometimes?"

" _Hmm? Oh. Not really… I'll take care of everything."_  he said dismissively. His smirk told me he was definitely planning something, but at least this fight was behind us.

* * *

When I came home from work the next day, it was to an empty apartment… empty of everything - furniture, books, paintings, accessories and decorations - and a small note from Reborn, casually informing me that most everything had been put in storage while my clothes and media devices were at his place.

And I guess that was that.

* * *

_**FIN** _

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Random facts, bloopers and behind-the-scenes:**  
>  *Archer Kyne was originally designed as a male character (hence the male first name) but he/she changed gender midway through the first chapter and I decided to leave them that way. The person behind Kyne spent decades in bodies of either gender so there was a certain degree of gender fluidity there anyway but still, if you want to envision Reborn with a slim, blue-eyed redheaded man, it would be as story-canon as a female Kyne.  
> *By the first half of the story, I'd had to delete two scenes where Reborn ended up killing Kyne for acting too suspicious. I promised myself that the kill counter would stay up till the end just to see how much authorial intervention Kyne would actually need. :)  
> *In chapter one, Kyne sees Reborn with Bianchi, working together as partners, but during the Daily Life Arc Bianchi is seventeen which probably makes her too young to have been Reborn's partner before the curse (in spite of the fact that she's officially his 4th girlfriend... I'm not sure I want to think of the mechanics behind five-year old Arcobaleno and seventeen-year old Bianchi or a forty-something Reborn and pre-teen/teen Bianchi… that way lies madness). It can either be disregarded or treated as an AU-element.  
> *Val di Chiana is the original place for the Chianina cattle breed… and since we're talking about the Bovino family, I thought 'why not'. Also, the B. from Niccolo's name unofficially stands for Bruno. Bruna Italiana is yet another Italian cattle breed and besides, Bruno Bovino (brown cow)was just something I couldn't resist. But officially, the B. could stand for anything. :)
> 
> And that's it folks. This is the complete version, posted as a one shot instead of eight chapters… Well, complete… except for OMAKEs (including a drabble collection of 'The Many, Varied Ways in Which Archer Kyne Was Ushered to Her Next Body... By Way of Reborn's Gun' - which, I'm proud to say, didn't reach as high a count as I'd feared) and a couple of one-shots from Reborn's perspective on the whole thing. If you've enjoyed reading this, please leave a comment. Even a short one makes my day. :)
> 
> Bye-bye!


End file.
